


Dragon King Rise

by kai of the wild (nakamoon)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Fantasy, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Mentions of fighting and blood, Mystery, Set in Paris, Tags will be updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakamoon/pseuds/kai%20of%20the%20wild
Summary: To prove his worth as the heir of the ancient Leechaiyapornkul mage family, Ten decides to end the Dark Daemon that has been terrorizing the city of Paris for the past few weeks. Admittedly, he cannot do this alone and decides to summon the chthonic spirit, Dragon King, with whom he makes a contract.It was certainly not part of the plan that Ten’s two most annoying classmates—the infuriating mage, Doyoung Kim, and the popular jock, Johnny Seo—would meddle in his affairs.With much dismay, Ten supposes it’s now up to all of them to save their city from the mysterious force that is threatening to destroy it. And, if in the meantime, he starts falling in love, no one mention it—it’s disgusting.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 26
Kudos: 62





	1. He is Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taeyomi (buttercream)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercream/gifts).



> Hey!
> 
> Just a few things I want to mention: this is a work in progress, something that I'm pretty much writing as I post, so please be patient with updates and with the story in itself. I plan on this being 5 chapters long, give or take, with 5-6k words each chapter. With that being said, I'm really excited to publish this and I hope anyone who reads this has fun following along with the fic :)
> 
> Special thanks to three people: Sam, for beta-ing and loving every scrap of johnten I write. Sana, who's also always so encouraging and willing to help my sorry ass in times of stress. And Line, one of the nicest, sweetest friends I have, and whom this fic is for.
> 
> Now, onwards, dear reader!

It’s a few weeks after Ten’s 18th birthday, that he is forced to summon his first Daemon.

It wasn’t part of the plan, really. As enthusiastic and confident as he’d always been in his abilities as a mage, Ten never really imagined that he’d be doing a spirit summoning so soon after his magic circles broke free for the first time.

It’s not anything he can’t do, of course. To say he’s prepared would be an understatement. Mother and Pū, for as long as they could, trained him more than adequately since he was a child. From chantings to latin to sigils to alchemy to healing, Ten is a fully-fledged mage. All he needs is a little—experience.

“Perfect,” he looks down at the chalk markings of his sigil, every little line and corner with absolute precision, like he’s been taught for years. Anything less than perfection and he'd be running the risk of summoning a tentacled monster or a banshee or a dark daemon. None of those options would be kind to Ten’s well-being.

He takes a deep breath before taking off his gloves, placing his hands on the cold cement floor of his basement. “ _Circulus per nomen Magia, O spiritus nobilis_ ,” his eyes are closed and Ten cannot see the interdimensional sigil below him, however, the warm feeling starting from the tips of his fingers is irrefutable, and so, with more confidence, he continues, “ _Voco ego ad vos et petere auxilium. Ten Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul sum ego enim vocationem_.”

Technically, Ten could easily summon a low-level daemon. But what good would that be? What’s out there roaming the streets of Paris at night and killing people is certainly not low-level—it’s dark and dangerous and according to the hearsay he’s been eavesdropping from Pū and his circle of old stuck-up mage friends, this is the first time in years that a high-level dark daemon has attacked the city.

Ten is not stupid, while a _superb_ mage, he knows if he were to go head to head against a dark daemon, he would be killed—or worse, he would be the laughingstock of the mage community. He simply doesn't have the fighting skills yet. But he has the mana, and he has the wits, and he has the _will._

He can certainly beat that dark daemon if he gets a little help from the underworld. Ten has the ability and power to summon a high-level daemon. Ten can do it, he knows he can and he will show Pū and all these other mage families what he’s capable of: everything.

The world of mages is an intricate one. At least it is for the heir of an old-school mage family, one that is wealthy in both power and money; an heir that has so much to prove.

Ten doesn't repeat the invocation out loud anymore, once is enough, in his mind, however, he repeats it over and over again. _C'mon, c'mon, c'mon._ Summoning doesn't work the first time for many mages, it takes much practice after first activating one's magic circles. But Ten is not just anyone. Magic flows through his bloodstream and it comes as natural as breathing, he is the culmination of hundreds of years of magic. _Ten_ is magic incarnate.

 _You will be far greater than me, Ten, greater than your father, greater than any Leechaiyapornkul._ The words his mother once said resonate in his head and Ten's hands never leave the floor, the circle beneath him bright red, red until the whole room is filled with light and Ten is forced to close his eyes. And then—darkness. Absolute darkness that engulfs the cold basement, not a single sound nor movement that Ten can discern. He stops breathing, wondering whether this stillness means failure or success.

The basement lights up again without preamble and Ten gasps.

In front of him stands a daemon.

Several— _several_ —inches taller than Ten, muscular, clad in all-black. The daemon’s face is half covered in a mask that only reveals his eyes, dark and unblinking as he stares down at Ten, not moving a single muscle. It takes a moment for Ten to realize it is a mask and not the daemon’s monstrous face; it is shining and enticing, red in color, its teeth, which cover most of the mask, are sharp, imitating the open mouth of a monster or a demon or anything that might kill Ten in a single bite.

Even as he stands there, quiet, observing, Ten can feel his aura. This is no low-level daemon, this is power in its rawest form.

The mask and height alone would make another mage shake in fear, but Ten straightens up and takes a single step towards the daemon, clearing his throat. "Spirit from Inferno," he greets, elegant and poised like a mage should be, "I'm Ten Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul and I summoned you tonight to form a contract with you."

The daemon is unmoving and says nothing, his dark eyes deep and focused solely on Ten, as if assessing him. Ten wonders if he will be murdered tonight.

He continues, hoping for the best, "I need your strength to defeat a dark daemon named _Richelieu_ who has been causing havoc around Paris. You are my first summon," he clears his throat again, "But I assure you I do not lack mana nor talent. I'm as good as any experienced mage. Form a contract with me and I will help you do as you wish."

Those are dangerous words. No one ever knows what a daemon will ask of you in return of their help. Sometimes they ask for a couple of years off your life, so they can feed off your mana, other times they will ask for your most precious memories. Sometimes they will ask for you to help them with any unfinished business they left back when they were alive, other times, if the daemon is eccentric enough, they will simply ask for an ice cream cone or perhaps their favorite flower. It is a gamble and Ten is willing to take it.

The daemon looks at him for a few more seconds, examining him in silence as Ten's palms start to get clammy with sweat.

"Spirit—”

"Khamot," the daemon says. His voice is deep, sending a shiver down Ten's spine as soon as he hears it. "The dark daemon name is Khamot, not Richelieu."

"Oh," Ten blinks, "Do you know him?" So _Khamot_ is his real name. Richelieu had only been an alias the mages of Paris had given the still unidentified spirit. With this information, Ten already has an upper-hand over the rest of the mages and he hasn’t even formed an infernal contract yet.

"He is well-known in Inferno," the daemon nods. After a beat, he says, "I want to fight him."

"Excuse me?"

"That's my wish, Ten Chittaphon. I will help you as long as you keep any other mage or daemon away from Khamot. I want to be the one to fight him."

Ten fights the urge to break out into a grin. That is what he wishes for too—like hell he’ll let anyone else steal the glory from him. Ten and his daemon will be the ones to take down Khamot or Richelieu or whatever the hell his name is.

“I require a lot of mana,” the daemon continues, “I do not care that you are inexperienced as long as you can feed me enough of it. This is not easy. If you’re not strong enough to do this you _will_ die.”

This, Ten knows. If it were someone else saying these words to him, he might be feeling somewhat offended—but the way this daemon speaks… it feels more like a formality, like he already knows that anyone who can summon him is powerful.

"What's your name, daemon?" he asks instead of replying.

Ten is not sure if it's merely a trick of the mind, but the room grows colder just as the other says, "Dragon King."

This time, Ten lets himself smile, taking out a small dagger from his coat. It's sharp and emblazoned with the Leechaiyapornkul family crest—two snakes around a black cross. "Well, Dragon King," Ten brings the sharp blade of the dagger up to his hand, cutting his own palm in a swift motion, crimson red dripping down onto the sigil beneath them, "I, Ten Chittaphon of the Leechaiyapornkul family of mages, promise to fulfill your wish. I shall lend you my mana to defeat Khamot and you will protect and fight for me until we succeed.”

Dragon King takes the blade from Ten and cuts his own palm. Instead of red, the liquid is black, dripping all the way down onto the floor, mingling with Ten's own blood and the magical sigil. " _A sanguine_."

" _A sanguine._ "

§

_**Le Cycle Des Mages** _

A mage is born with magic within.

A mage can only be born from another mage, a human may never become a mage, it is impossible.

A mage is only as powerful as their ancestors, for magic is inherited and passed down from generation to generation. The traditional Mage Families are old families whose heirs accumulate mana—they are the most powerful of mages and often lead the Mage community in their respective cities. Their children often practice without mana until the age of their 18th birthday, the day where their Magic Circles break and their mana is released into their body. The adult mage will now be ready to use magic without the aid of potions, spells, and charms.

The mage now has an array of things to do, including healing, elemental combat, and summoning of other magical creatures, most commonly Daemons.

Most individuals never accumulate enough power for the second phase of the mage cycle: _Inferno_. If a mage has accumulated a rare and extraordinary amount of power before their human death, they will be able to live a second life as a Mage Daemon in the otherworldly and timeless land of Inferno. Here, a mage becomes increasingly more powerful but loses their earthly mana.

As a Daemon, they will be able to be summoned to Earth and form contracts with human mages in exchange for wishes. The mages provide mana so the Daemon is able to stay in the human plane. The more plentiful a mage's mana is, the more powerful their summoned Daemon will be. Because of this, traditional Mage families are able to summon the most powerful of Daemons.

However, mages should tread carefully—when a powerful mage dies in regret or anguish, it may become a Dark Daemon, a berserker type of spirit who loses control and is overcome by dark power. Sometimes these Dark Daemons are able to enter the human world out of sheer will and cause havoc. It is a mage's noble duty to stop these Dark Daemons and either kill them or take them back to Inferno.

_For more information on Dark Spirits refer to **Chapter 7: Les Mages Noirs.**_

§

“Oh, did you see what happened, little Ten?” Elodie says as she pours orange juice into his glass.

Ten knows what she’s referring to, he was looking at it a few seconds ago on his phone. Elodie is old enough to be getting her news from the TV or even worse, the newspaper. He still looks at her and asks, “See what?”

“There was a fire yesterday night, around Grand Vert Park. They say it was an accident, someone left their lit cigarette near some bushes.”

“A cigarette?” he raises his eyebrows, “Highly unlikely. It’s like they can’t come up with a better excuse.”

Elodie sighs, turning around to turn on the coffee machine. “It sounds like one of those spirits again, eh?”

“Yeah,” he nods, fixing his suffocating school tie with annoyance, “Probably one of those lesser spirits that got out with Richelieu.”

“I sure hope the Bureau ends this soon, it’s getting out of control.”

“Bite your tongue, Elodie, the Bureau of Mages is doing everything they can right now. God knows they’re the ones who stopped the fire yesterday,” Ten turns around at the familiar voice. Pū comes in, already in a suit, crisp and clean.

“Good morning, Monsieur Aod,” Elodie says, rushing to get coffee from the kitchen. Pū is particular about his coffee and won’t drink anything else but Colombian premium.

“Pū," Ten greets, bowing slightly as his grandfather sits at the head of the table and a second maid comes in to serve him a warm breakfast plate.

"Don't listen to that woman, Chittaphon," Pū says, his graying hairs gelled back cleanly. "The Bureau has been sending out people to catch these foolish lesser spirits since they appeared."

"What about Richelieu?" _Khamot_ , he wants to say instead but bites his tongue—his grandfather is the last person that needs to know Ten is looking for the Dark Daemon on his own, he’d never hear the end of it.

Pū looks up once from his food, in thought for just a second, enough for Ten to notice. He goes back to his food, "Not a problem, the Bureau will have him gone by the end of the week, I assure you that."

"Of course," Ten replies with ease. He knows Pū is hiding something, but it's not like he can press his grandfather for information. That's okay, Ten doesn't need help from the Mage Bureau, he's got a major daemon in his room who's bonded to him by blood right at this very moment.

"Don't be late for school, boy, move along," Pū dismisses him and Ten grumbles, downing the last of his orange juice before rushing out the door, where a chauffeur waits for him.

Like every other morning, Ten despises having to go to school. There’s nothing of interest for him there, but he must endure the last few months until graduation. A few more months—just a few more months and he will be free from school, ready to completely immerse himself in the world of mages.

He huffs, still indignant at the stuffy and childish uniform he’s forced to wear as he walks along the hallways of his school. Ten is only able to get in a slightly better mood at the thought that he’ll be able to meet Dragon King after school and start his clandestine investigation. In the meantime, the spirit was ordered to stay in his bedroom until Ten got back—the last thing he wanted was for the daunting-looking daemon to give poor Elodie a heart attack.

Ten’s slightly good mood doesn’t last long, in fact, it completely evaporates as soon as he enters his homeroom class.

"Well, good morning, Ten," Doyoung says, not looking up from his notebook as he scribbles down unintelligible handwriting. It seems, as is always the case, that Doyoung Kim is the first and only student to arrive at an ungodly hour in the morning, not a hair out of place.

Ten, as is always the case, is only second. “Doyoung,” he pseudo-greets, almost an everyday ritual.

He doesn’t say much else, only walks past Doyoung and sits in his usual desk, first row, last seat.

Ten doesn’t have many friends—or any, really. He’s okay with that, he’s not that interested in mingling with humans anyway: not because he thinks less of them or anything obsolete and silly like that, but because he thinks it’d be an unnecessary drag to hide his life as a mage from them. He thinks that maybe once he attends _l'Institut_ he will allow a friend or two.

In that regard, Doyoung Kim and Ten are alike. He may not like him, by any means, in fact, if given the choice Ten would rather hang out with a mustard stain than Doyoung, but he does admit that there is a certain camaraderie between them as the only two mages in their posh academy of humans. He supposes sometimes it also extends to fancy, boring dinner nights between old-school mage families, where Ten's Pū and Doyoung's own _hal-abeoji_ kick it up and have Old Men fun while their grandsons are left to awkwardly pretend they don't see each other in class every day. Perhaps, in an odd way, this can be considered a crooked kind of friendship.

"Did you hear about Grand Vert Park?" Doyoung asks, still focused on his own note-taking, but there's clearly an underlying question that he cannot voice out loud, _did you hear about the lesser spirit that set fire to the park?_

"Mhm," Ten hums, "Grandpa says they got it all under control." By _them_ Ten means the Mages Bureau, the main law enforcers of the mage world—both Doyoung and Ten's families have strong ties with the Bureau and at some point, their grandparents, as well as their parents, worked under the Paris division.

"Of course they do," Doyoung says simply, finishing up his notes. "They always do."

Since Doyoung can't see him, Ten doesn't resist the urge to roll his eyes. He's always thought of Doyoung as a shameless sycophant, one that wants to join the Bureau of Mages no matter what. Ten does so too, of course he does, being a part of the Bureau means being the most premier of Mages in the world. Ten can do that. Easily. But whereas Doyoung wants to fit in, Ten wants to mold, to change, to transform.

As much as his grandpa would want, Ten isn’t like Doyoung and Doyoung isn’t like him.

“They do.”

Before the conversation inevitably drags on, both mages are saved by the morning bell, signaling the beginning of class and a group of students streaming into the classroom like sardines, filling most of the seats between Doyoung and Ten.

Ten sighs at the mere thought of his mundane pre-calculus class.

The hour drags on, then the next class and the next, and Ten is almost relieved when it's time for gym class. By nature, Ten does not like gym or having to wear his detestable gym shorts or any of the sort, really, if anything, gym is one of the worst classes in his already tragic schedule. However, right now, as he would rather be left alone in thought to plan out his next course of action regarding Khamot, gym class seems like a breath of fresh air, both figuratively and literally.

Ten sits in one of the outside benches, trying his best to cover his bare, skinny legs as most of the students run and play sports or whatever it is humans like to do. There are a few others, like Ten, who just sit back and enjoy the lack of supervision, chit-chatting amongst themselves, so Ten blends into the background with ease. It's almost surprising how different Ten, the high school wallflower, and Ten, the wunderkind mage can be.

"I wonder how he's doing," Ten mutters to himself in thought, wondering how a powerful spirit can pass the time stuck in a high schooler's bedroom. He's going to send him right back to Inferno if Dragon King so much as takes a peek at his diary.

No matter, as soon as he gets back from school they'll get back to business. He could've been making so much progress by now if it were not for the shackles of high school education and—

"Look out!"

The warning comes too late. Ten turns around just as an _awful_ , hellish football flies straight into his face.

It hurts. Like hell. Ten tries his best to keep himself calm, poised. To no avail.

"Aghhh," he cries, hands going up in pain to cover his pulsating and probably red face. "What the hell."

" _Oh my god,_ " a voice says in English, "I'm so sorry, Ten, it was an accident!"

Ten, teary-eyed, looks up to see the perpetrator—the idiot who almost killed him. Johnny Seo. Ten nearly wants to cry and run away. This is a hate crime!

"We were practicing for today's game and I kicked the ball too hard and I'm so sorry, I really am, I swear I didn't do it on purpose, I just—"

"Can you just shut up and take me to the nurse's office," he snaps, "I think I'm bleeding."

"Fuck, fuck," Johnny panics even more now, "Of course. Do you want me to carry you?"

"What? No, no," he moves away, face upwards as a stream of blood trickles down from his nostrils. "Just take me there and shut up."

Johnny nods in silence, face white at the sight of Ten's bloody nose, and takes him by the elbow, guiding them both out of the fields. If Ten was already in a bad mood, this just made it ten times worse. Of course it had to be the greatest jock of all who hit him straight in the face. Johnny, popular and handsome and friendly, part of the football team—a scholarship student from America who enrolled last year. There's nothing personal between them, Ten just thinks Johnny is the type of person he doesn't like, loud and meddlesome.

“Do you need a tissue?”

“No, I do _not.”_

§

In retrospect, Ten ought to thank that silly little American.

It is thanks to him, after all, that Ten is able to go home early.

“You’re okay, Mr. Chittaphon,” the nurse had said.

“I feel like I’m going to die. I have low iron. Anemic, one might say. Do you really want me to pass out here in school?”

She had sighed with a roll of eyes and let him go with a permission slip, it was only one hour until the end of the school day anyway.

And so, the scheming little devil Ten got his way, as was usual. “Thanks, Hugo,” Ten calls to his chauffeur as they park on the mansion’s driveway. After a pause, he says, “You can take the day off, Pū’s away and I’ll be staying here for the rest of the evening.”

That’s a lie, but Hugo is a snitch and Pū would surely take him out of the inheritance if he ever finds out what Ten is planning.

The mansion is mostly empty save for Elodie and a housemaid or two in the kitchen; no one will bother Ten now.

“Dragon King,” he opens the door with a slam, scanning his own bedroom. It appears empty when Ten opens the door but almost as soon he calls for the spirit, a dark cloud materializes in the middle of the room, a silhouette appearing in front of the mage until it becomes solid. Ten’s eyes widen for a second at the apparition before shaking his head, “Go to the basement, I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

“What are we doing?” Dragon King asks as he follows Ten’s orders, stepping out of the room.

“There've been incidents around the area every night lately, right?” he says, doffing his uniform vest and tie away, “I’m going to run a location scan and check for any points where there’s unusual high-concentrations of mana. That might give us a lead.”

Dragon King raises an eyebrow, “That requires a lot of energy. Usually two mages are needed for a location scan.”

“Yeah, and so what? I can do it.”

“How old are you?”

Ten wishes he could see behind Dragon King’s stupid mask just to see the kind of expression he’s making as he asks that. “Eighteen,” he sniffs, turning around to look for his favorite coat.

“You’re young,” the other murmurs, “If you die I’ll go back to Inferno and your mission will fail.”

“If I _die,_ then it won’t matter now will it?” Ten says. It’s not like he isn’t aware of the—repercussions there will be if he somehow fucks this up. It won’t happen though, he won’t let it. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, by the way.”

“Just be careful. If you die from a simple spell before ever meeting Khamot then it’s all for naught.”

“I’m always careful,” Ten turns back, facing the daemon, “Even if it doesn’t look like it. Now, get to the basement. I take it you know how to draw a locus sigil?”

“Of course.”

“Good, please draw one, I’ll be there in a minute.”

By the time Ten has donned his coat and gloves, finally out of that exhausting uniform, he makes his way downstairs, towards the basement, making sure none of the housemaids see him. It’s not like he doesn’t spend most of his time there, in fact, he probably spends more time in the basement than in his own room, reading books or concocting potions or practicing spells and sigils. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for Ten to be there, tonight, however, he plans on being as inconspicuous as he can. After all, in this mansion, everyone works for Pū, not him.

Ten enters the room, slowly descending the stairs as he feels the sudden drop of temperature. Dragon King is already there, looking over a chalk-made sigil on the floor.

“I’m impressed,” Ten says as he observes the carefully drawn lines and symbols of the _locus_ sigil. Each mark is pressed and drawn with confidence, elegant markings that, while unnecessary, elevate the art of sigil drawing. Not many mages draw sigils like that nowadays, with only a few handful of traditional families still adhering to the art form. Ten prides himself in his own sigils and it seems Dragon King’s are just as good as his. Now that he thinks about it, Dragon King would not have made it to Inferno at all if he were to be anything else than extraordinary. It makes Ten feel more confident than ever knowing he has an Infernal mage by his side, the odds are looking good.

“Here,” Ten kneels down to place an old fabric map on top of the sigil. It’s already yellow and the edges are torn but it was a gift from Pū, a locus map that he had used back in his days and then was passed down to Ten’s own father for a few years.

Just as when he summoned Dragon King, Ten places his hands on the floor, this time, on top of the map as warm mana flows through his veins, making the sigil below them glow a yellowish hue.

“ _Magicum in terris videamus oculis loco invocationis,_ ” Ten says into the silent room. The sunlight from outside is the only thing illuminating the basement and at this hour, it is slowly turning orange, the sun setting to give way to the silver moon.

"There it is," Dragon King hums as a single white dot of light takes shape in the corner of the fabric, and along with it, black traces that form what squares and streets and words—a map.

"Great," Ten takes the fabric map into his hands, "Now we'll have an idea of where this shitty spirit is. The map seems to be locating strong Dark spiritual energy in this particular point, do you reckon it's Khamot?"

"Maybe. But remember there were other Dark Spirits that escaped Inferno when Khamot did. It could be anyone, but it's worth a chance."

Ten nods, taking his satchel from a nearby table, the map still in his hands. "Got it. Now, if we can just look at—" Ten pauses, something within the map catching his attention. "You gotta be kidding me."

"What's the matter?" Dragon King walks up to him, looking over the much shorter Ten to glance at the map.

Ten looks away from the map, wide-eyed. "That's my school. There's Dark energy manifesting at _my school_."

Dragon King is silent, taking in Ten's words. "Are you sure?"

" _Yes_ ," he points to the dot of light still manifesting itself on the map, " _Rue de Callot._ That's the street, I'm not crazy. What the hell?" Out of all places in their giant city—why would a Dark Daemon, whether it's Khamot or not, be in his tiny, stupid school?

"Is it closed right now?" Dragon King inquires, "If no one's there then we can rush in without being seen but—"

Sudden realization strikes Ten, "There was a football game tonight. I don't know if anyone is still there but if they are _we have to hurry_ , someone might be in danger."

It seems like Dragon King is thinking the same thing, he nods in silence and Ten's hands shake as he puts the map on his satchel.

A mage protects. A mage is noble. A mage helps those who cannot help themselves. Those are the words Pū has always said to him growing up. Ten, while having differences in ideals with the Bureau, believes in those words too. He's always wanted to live by those words. Now, at this moment, as his hands shake and his face pales, he realizes that having the power to help someone from danger is something that he has control over. And if he fails, the consequences will be his and his alone to carry.

"Ten," Dragon King's deep voice startles him, his face mere inches from Ten's own, as if the daemon wants Ten to listen to his words closely, "Don't overthink this or _you will fail._ We have a contract, remember that."

Ten nods, shaking his head. Dragon King is right. They can leave overthinking after they get rid of the Dark daemon. He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can do so, he feels strong arms take hold of him and then— _whoosh._

A terrible, horrible feeling of being torn to pieces and then being thrown into a blender. It's not painful, not really, but it is uncomfortable and unnatural and it feels _icky._ It doesn't last more than three seconds and when it stops, Ten opens his eyes to find the dark sky above him, they're not in the basement anymore.

"I'm gonna throw up," Ten heaves, his stomach feeling like a thousand hells.

"You'll get used to it," Dragon King shrugs, looking around the place.

"What the fuck did you do?" he tries taking a deep breath of fresh air, "And where are we?"

"Spirit travel. It's easier," he points behind Ten without flourish, "And we're at your school."

Ten turns around and sure enough, the gleaming ivory walls of his private academy stand tall and imminent against the night sky background.

"It doesn't look like there are many people around," notes Dragon King, "Which is a good thing. We can try getting rid of the daemon without anyone noticing."

"Without casualties," Ten nods, standing upright. It looks like cars, perhaps from the afternoon football game, are leaving through the open gate. "Let's go through there then," he turns around to look at the inconspicuous daemon, "And give me a damn warning next time you do that spirit travel thing."

"Of course, master." Something about the way he addresses him makes Ten's vein pulsate. Who gave this daemon a sense of humor? A terrible one, at that.

As they make their way inside, Ten determines the place is nearly empty, with just a few students clad in their football uniform walking out of the field and into the parking lot. Ten hopes he doesn't look too out of place in his coat and unsporty demeanor. He doesn't worry about Dragon King being seen, it is impossible for the human eye to perceive Spirits.

From around his neck and under his shirt, Ten takes out a pendant, a pyrope gem adorned with a golden chain. A gift from his mother.

"A witch's talisman," says Dragon King, giving the scarlet pendant a glance-over.

Ten feels the urge to hide it from him and anyone else's eyes, as he usually does. He resists, straightening up instead as he nods, "Talismans like these allow magic circles to be heightened up. Many witch students of magic use them before their magic circles break free. I don't need it anymore, of course," he lifts the pendant into the air, the moonlight reflecting on the shiny surface of the gem, "But it'll guide us towards any nearby magical energy."

As he says those words, the pendant floats, beaming a bright red color before it starts moving on its own. Ten lets the pendant guide, soft energy emanating from the talisman as they enter deep into the school. Even without the pendant, the more he focuses, the more Ten can sense a buzzing energy in the air, the unmistakable feeling of magic. It's dense, like a heavy fog that surrounds them; there is no doubt, something is lurking within the walls of the school, something dark. Ten wants to know— _why?_

And if it's such dark magic, why is his talisman still emanating a warm red light? It should be turning darker the closer they get to the daemon.

"Be on your guard," Dragon King says, "I can feel us approaching something. This is not..." he looks around, confused, "This is not a lesser daemon, Ten."

"Is it Khamot?"

"No," he shakes his head, "Definitely not. But I can assure you it's almost as strong."

 _Almost as strong as Khamot?_ Ten's hold on his talisman tightens, mana ready on the tip of his fingers if needed. With Dragon King by his side, Ten only needs to worry about one and one thing only: supply him enough mana to fight.

By now, they've crossed the football field, not a soul in the vicinity as the talisman floats, guiding them into the one of the school buildings Ten is not too familiar with, especially now when it's dark and his school looks nothing like it does in daylight. The talisman shines brighter and brighter, warmer and warmer, still red as fiery flames and Ten thinks that he's getting a little too nervous for a daemon that is not Khamot.

The pendant guides them to a door and it shines, shines, _shines_ impossibly bright and—

Ten opens the door, the locker room shaking with the force of his slam.

In there, a single boy jumps up, startled. He turns around, tall, dark hair and wide brown eyes staring as Ten and Dragon King enter the room, talisman now dull and in Ten's hands.

"Johnny?" Ten exclaims, looking at the other boy, who is donned in a t-shirt and shorts, hair looking ruffled and wet.

"Ten?" Johnny asks, squinting his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Ten demands, walking up to the other student, who still looks confused.

"I just had my football game," he replies, words slow as if that somehow made things easier for Ten to understand, "I took a shower and was about to leave."

"Really? Alone? Everyone already left," Ten accuses him. Of what—he doesn't know.

"Yeah," Johnny raises an eyebrow, putting his duffel bag over his shoulder, "Some of us... walk home, you know? No fancy cars or anything."

"I—"

"But what are _you_ doing here?" Johnny crosses his arms, looking down at Ten, "You weren’t at the game, I didn't see you there at all."

Ten closes his mouth. How the hell did he turn into the one being interrogated here!

"And who's your...friend?" Johnny looks past him. He waves, "Nice mask." Dragon King waves back.

" _You can see him?_ "

"Am I... not supposed to?"

Ten feels like he’s going to pass out right here on the floor of this dirty gym locker room.

"Johnny Seo. Are you a _fucking mage?_ "

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”

§

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, please expect the second chapter soon as things will start setting in motion. Kudos and comments are very appreciated!
> 
> I'm also on [Twitter.com](https://twitter.com/ten_taeil) and on [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/nakamoon) :)


	2. La Papesse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Priestess is part of tarot's Major Arcana; it is associated with the yet unrevealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads Up: for a clearer concept, the denomination for “Spirits” has been changed to “Daemons”.
> 
> Onward!

"No, that's..." Ten trails off, looking at the dirty wall next to them. Johnny? A mage? That's not possible, Ten knows every important mage family in Paris, it's just proper etiquette for dinner parties. When has he ever heard of _the Seos?_ Does Doyoung know about this?

It hits Ten like a bucket of cold water. He supposes his world is indeed very little. "You just moved here last year."

Johnny grins at him, almost proud, "I guess you do know of me."

"What does that mean?"

"I didn't think you knew I existed. Until today, I guess. Sorry about your nose, by the way."

He brings his hands up to his nose, the ghost of pain making him scrunch his eyebrows at the memory. "Everyone at school knows of your existence, Johnny Seo." His lack of awareness astounds even Ten.

"I wouldn't say everyone. Maybe four out of five?" Johnny brings up his hand up to his chin, an aloof air around him. Ten has never really wondered why the boy is popular—he’s friendly, that much is obvious. Easy to get along with. But... a mage? Really?

"Does Doyoung know about you?" he asks. Ten is going to be just the tiniest bit irked if the other mage knew about Johnny before him.

"Doyoung Kim? Why would he know? I don't go telling just anyone about it—Oh, is Doyoung a mage too?"

" _Yeah,"_ he says, "Do you just go around not knowing anything?"

Johnny shrugs, "The mage scene in Chicago is very different than the one here. I hear you guys still work around blood purity, very strict. To be honest, my blood is mixed, only my mom's side of the family got magic, and barely so.”

If what he says is true, even if Johnny was born and bred in Paris, Ten still wouldn’t know Johnny's family name. Human-mage families, especially weak ones, are but a blip in the radar of the Parisian mage scene.

"Sorry to interrupt," Dragon King speaks up, not at all sorry, walking from behind Ten, his sight on the entrance door, "But I think something just found us.”

Ten shivers as the air turns colder, the buzz of dark magic that was previously in the atmosphere is back, even stronger than before. The map wasn't lying, there _is_ dark energy in this place and it’s not Johnny's warm and small mage mana—something else is lurking.

"I... what's happening?" Johnny asks when Ten and Dragon King turn alert. Ten's hands emanate a lavender light, his mana forming an invisible bridge between him and Dragon King's spirit.

The daemon draws two long swords from his back, the scabbards are golden and the blades shine, sharp and lethal

"Are those _ssangsudo_ swords?" Johnny asks, excited, and most definitely not knowing the danger they're in. Ten can't believe he's now tasked with protecting this less than adequate mage too. "Those are Korean, my mom—"

" _Johnny_ , not right now," Ten shouts, and it is just then that the sound of something sharp scraping against metal resonates throughout the room, shrill and painful to the ears.

"Watch out!"

A ball of flames fly straight at them, it is only Dragon King's reflexes that prevent them from becoming charred pieces of meat. The blast of fire dissolves as soon as it touches the Daemon’s blade and Ten nearly cries out at how close that was.

There's little time to sigh out in relief—from the shadows, a dark shape takes form as it enters the room, its claws clacking against the floor tiles, black and muddy. Its eyes are yellow and red-rimmed, its head is disproportionate, too big for its body, and its wings, long and boney, stretch out as the creature wails, a hellish sound that can only mean trouble. A gargoyle.

"Ten, go hide," Dragon King orders, "Don't let the mana stop coming in, just hide and stay around until I kill this thing."

"Are you sure?" Ten panics, "I—I can form a shield around us if I stay here and—"

"Not with this guy around," Dragon King says, pointing at Johnny, "Just stay out of the way."

Ten looks at Johnny with a sigh, and, before the gargoyle can blast them again with a fire ball, he takes the other by the hands and they make a run towards the end of the room, behind all the lockers and showers, one hand holding onto Johnny, the other shining brightly, supplying Dragon King with mana.

"What the hell is that? Why is it attacking us?" Johnny's voice shakes, eyes wide.

"We came here to kill it," Ten says, slightly out of breath, "But _you_ distracted me and it caught us off-guard."

"How is this my fault now?"

"Can you at least do something? A little spell amplification to help out? A shield? I would do one myself but I rather not use any mana on anything that's not Dragon King right now." More blasts sound in the distance, startling them both. This is the first time Ten has heard and seen a gargoyle in person. They're—more gross looking up close, a book depiction pales in comparison.

"I—" Johnny looks at his side, mouth twisted. "I can't."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

Johnny sighs, "My magic circles are not... broken."

"Not broken?"

"I can't do magic yet."

 _Dear god_. Johnny wasn't kidding when he said his magic was weak. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Then why—"

" _I don't know_ , Ten!"

"Okay, okay," he says before realizing he's still holding on to Johnny's hands. He lets go at once for a second, embarrassed. And then he takes it again.

If anything, Johnny is under Ten's protection now, he is Ten's responsibility. "Follow me," he whispers, their hands intertwined, before peeking out from behind a locker.

This is the first time Ten sees Dragon King fight and it is everything he imagined and more. The way he moves is swift, fast; his form is impeccable, Ten doesn't recognize the fighting stances but he can tell it's a martial art. And the swords—they shine brightly against the fire blasts from the gargoyle, so flowing and smooth they look like water waves dancing in the air as Dragon King fights, almost as if it were a game to him.

"He's so badass," Johnny whispers next to him.

"Yeah," Ten agrees. His daemon _is_ kind of badass.

Johnny looks down at him, curious, “What happens if you run out of mana?”

“He won’t be able to use magic anymore,” he points towards the daemon just as the other slashes through one of the gargoyle’s wing, “Right now, he’s using magic to enhance his own body and his attacks. If I run out of mana he becomes… like you, I guess. A mage with no magic.”

“...Thanks.”

“And also, I die.”

“Huh?”

“If my body runs out of mana it means I’ve reached a point of no return, my body weakens and I’ll just… die.”

Johnny looks aghast. “How long until that happens?”

Ten smirks, “It depends on how powerful the mage and the daemon are.”

“Dragon King seems pretty powerful. I give you two hours.”

Ten laughs at the quip without even thinking, the sound of Dragon King beheading the gargoyle becomes background noise. “You wish.”

An average mage supplying mana to an average daemon would last maybe a few hours of non-stop magic before their body started showing signs of exhaustion. Ten and Dragon King are both a little more powerful than the average mage and Ten is yet to feel anything but slight nervousness at the fight.

With one last wail, the gargoyle screams, one of Dragon’s swords cutting into its yellow eye. It twitches for a moment before it goes pliant and then, it melts onto the floor as black liquid.

Dragon King steps out of the black puddle and looks at them from behind the locker. “You can come out, kids.”

“Is it dead?” Johnny calls, still looking shaken at the whole ordeal. “Dead for real?”

“Dead for real,” the daemon nods solemnly.

Ten decides to finally let go of Johnny’s hand, straightening up his coat in the process and clearing his throat. “Was that it? Was the map pointing to—this?” he looks down with disgust at the viscous liquid that’s starting to smell of decay.

This time, Dragon King shakes his head, “Gargoyles don’t emanate Dark magic. But I don’t sense anything else in the premises. I think—”

“The gargoyle was under orders?” Johnny raises an eyebrow, “And whoever it was is already gone.”

“Yes.”

“But the gargoyles of Paris…” Ten kneels down to look closely at the liquefied creature. “They’re under orders of the Church of Saint Rieti.”

“The what?”

“The nephilim. The gargoyles are under orders of the nephilim.”

§

"You killed him," Khamot says and it's almost a whisper, barely heard above the blowing winds of Parisian winter.

"It was your decisions that killed him, no one else," The Minister says.

"Liar,” the mage replies and it's almost like his eyes glow, fiery and terrible, a thousand aches and sorrows flash through them in a second. Any lesser mage would think twice before staying in Khamot's presence, but The Minister persists even as the other growls, guttural, almost inhuman. "You killed him, you killed them _all_."

"You're a threat," The Minister says, dignified, the tips of his fingers glow with glowing mana as they light up the hidden alleyway they find themselves in, "And I'm afraid you can't see that for yourself. I'm sorry it had to end this way."

"Me too."

The blood of many spill that night, tainting the streets with regret and anguish and indescribable, unadulterated pain.

Khamot dies in the middle of the street, bleeding out as The Minister watches on with an odd kind of sadness. Khamot dies and with him, a Dark daemon is born.

§

"You smell like burnt mugwort."

It hasn't even been five seconds since Ten entered the classroom. Doyoung doesn't look up from his notes, but the hand holding onto his pen has stopped writing.

"You should mind your own business, really."

"Have you been using mana?" he ignores Ten, turning to face him as Ten walks past, sitting on his desk with a slump.

Ten raises an eyebrow, "Haven't you? I've been practicing every night. Admissions for l'Institut are coming soon."

"You say that as if they won't see your last name and welcome you with open arms," Doyoung huffs with a roll of eyes. Ten thinks it's funny—he could've said the same thing to Doyoung.

"Do you not want me to practice? Feeling a little threatened, Doyoung?”

“By all means, keep practicing, catching up to me will be quite hard.” Doyoung turns back to his desk, ending the conversation.

Ten twitches with a sigh of relief. Doyoung was right: a mix of mugwort and frankincense is used to aid the regeneration of mana during sleep, usually after an extensive use of it. He didn’t think he would still smell of it after using it last night and he hopes—oh dear god, he hopes—that Pū was too distracted during breakfast to notice the scent.

He curses Kim Doyoung under his breath, Ten is impressed by his nose and deduction skills, he’ll give him that. He wouldn’t use mugwort just for a single afternoon of practicing spells though. Maybe Doyoung knows that too, maybe Ten should be glad Doyoung ended the conversation on his own accord.

Ten thinks back on last night’s mess, a very unproductive outing, in his opinion. There was no Khamot and no lesser daemon, only a dumb mage and a stupid gargoyle that might or might not be involved with the nephilim mages. He supposes that’s a lead as good as any, and it’s all he has anyway.

He scribbles on his notebook as his history teacher drones on and on in the background.

_Investigate Church_

_Try locus spell again_

_Go through Pū’s office… information?_

_Buy new gloves_

Maybe he should buy gloves before anything else, especially if he’s going to be parading around the city at night like he did yesterday.

Ten sighs, this whole ordeal seems to be more complicated than he originally anticipated. He wonders how hard the Bureau is actually trying to catch Khamot and whether the Church of Rieti is indeed involved in all of this at all.

By the time lunch rolls around, Ten is, once again, a convoluted ball of nerves, just itching to leave school and find more leads. He thinks he’s been doing alright, if this is the sort of stuff mages do in the Bureau, then he’s got it in the bag.

He unpacks the lunch Elodie made for him, chicken scallops and a salad, and looks at it with dismay. Ten wishes he could go out and buy something else to eat, like most of the other students do, but Elodie is dramatic about her food. He indulges her a lot, Ten thinks, but it’s only fair—Elodie spoils him in return. He thinks it’s because he reminds her of Ten’s own dad, whom she took care of since he was a kid. She also had a soft spot for Ten’s mom, he still remembers the rice pudding she used to make for her during summer afternoons as Pū watched with childish reproach.

Ten misses those days, he misses his mom and, although the early memories of his dad are vanishing with time, he misses him dearly too. It might be pathetic, so he doesn’t voice it, but sometimes Ten thinks the only way he can be with his dad again is through magic—reading his alchemy books, the notes made with his own handwriting, the exact same potions he worked on when he was younger.

He looks at his chicken scallop and takes a bite.

“Ten.”

With his cheeks full of food and taken aback, Ten turns around. It’s not like there are many people in this school who would willingly seek him during lunch, so it’s not like he’s entirely too surprised to see who’s standing in front of him, handsome smile greeting down at Ten.

“Jmohnfy,” he says with elegance. Ten frowns at himself, swallowing his food as Johnny takes the seat in front of him as if it’s nothing. He tries again, “Johnny?”

“Hey, Ten. I guess I just wanted to talk about… yesterday _,_ ” Johnny tries whispering but Ten thinks he got the furtiveness of a Christmas tree in July.

Ten rolls his eyes, “Okay, now try saying it without half the cafeteria listening in.” It’s probably not Johnny’s loud words, but Ten does notice a few glances in their direction and he supposes it’s got more to do with the fact their precious Johnny Seo is leisurely sitting with the infamous and unamiable Ten.

Johnny clears his throat, properly lowering his voice, “Well, first. Thank you. I don’t think I ever thanked you for saving my life yesterday.”

“You were a lucky casualty, that’s all. But I accept your thanks, you’re very welcome.”

“ _Right_. It was like destiny, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all, Johnny.”

“We call it serendipity in English.”

“I’m fluent in English, I know what it means.”

There’s a pause, heavy with silence, as Johnny stares at Ten, as if trying to say something that he just cannot. For the first time and much to his dismay, Ten realizes Johnny is attractive.

Okay. It is not the first time he’s noticed it, but _it is_ the first time he’s consciously thinking about it and the ramifications it has for a young gay like him.

“Let me help you,” Johnny finally says, breaking the silence, and with it, Ten’s thoughts and dreams.

His eye twitches, taking another bite of his salad as he lets Johnny continue.

"I think I was supposed to be there, you know? When you and Dragon King got there and then I was just standing there and then the _gargoyle_."

"Uh-huh."

"It's like life telling me I'm supposed to help you."

“That’s one way of seeing it.”

“I even helped you clean up the dead gargoyle and everything.”

"Are you done?"

"Yes. What do you say?" Johnny smiles at him. It really is a nice smile.

Ten takes a sip of his water bottle, loudly and obnoxiously. "Absolutely not."

" _Ten."_

"Are you insane?" he slams the bottle on the table, "You could've _died_ yesterday. It wasn't destiny, you were just the fool who spent too long in the showers." He pauses, feeling his heart race in disbelief at this idiot in front of him. "You don't even have mana, yet. Do you think this is a game?"

"I think that's exactly why I should help you," Johnny murmurs, sitting back on his chair, hair disheveled, tie unmade and blazer nowhere to be seen. "There must be a reason why my magic circles haven't broken yet."

"You're right, there is a reason. Your magic is weak."

"I think it needs to be _awakened_.”

Ten crosses his arms, "I can't babysit you."

"You don't have to, I know hapkido. And a little bit of Shaolin kung fu. I can totally fend for myself."

He raises an eyebrow. "Hapkido?"

"Dad's side of the family," Johnny shrugs, "Mom's supposed to be magic, but look at me. No mana to my name."

"Does she care?" Ten trails off, “About your magic circles, I mean."

Johnny plays with the napkin in front of him, the picture-perfect of carefree. "Not really. She doesn't even use her magic that much. She's a museum curator, actually. We're too far removed from the mage community and that's okay. It's just—well, _damn_ I got magic in my blood but can't even use it? That fucking sucks."

"Yeah, I suppose it does," he hums.

"How did you activate it?" Johnny asks, "Did it really just happen like that?"

"Yes, Johnny, it just happens like that.”

Ten realizes he and Johnny are more different than he originally thought, even beyond their high school personas. All Ten knows is magic. That's what his parents taught him, what Pū taught him, it's what he's grown up listening to and seeing every day of his life. He's read every single book his grandfather ever instructed him to, he knows every single potion and spell he needs to know for the l'Institut entrance exam. He's planned his whole life around being a mage, working for the Bureau—making the Bureau work for him—maybe even creating a potion that will be named after him. It's all he knows, really. Ten's whole life has been carefully constructed around who he is as a mage, that's the whole reason he's even out there gallivanting around the streets of Paris, chasing after a daemon that might kill him.

And then there's Johnny. Johnny, who doesn't even know what's supposed to happen when your magic circles break. Ten bets he wouldn't even be able to tell the difference between an elixir and a potion. How tragic!

"I suppose one is just born that way," Johnny sighs, "The blood is weak and _—"_

"No," Ten says, frowning at Johnny. He pauses, then takes the shredded napkin from the other boy. "I mean, I guess in a way it's true. Blood dictates how much mana you have, there's no way around that. But," he looks at Johnny in the eye, "Blood doesn't dictate how good you can be. There's much more to it than your ancestors, Johnny Seo."

Johnny smiles, "I thought French mages were all about blood purity."

"Oh, they are," Ten sniffs, "And I think they're absolutely stupid."

"Do you think I even have magic then?" he asks, "That I'll be able to break the magic circles?"

"Of course," Ten nods decisively, "Your blood doesn't dictate who you'll be. Live to prove them wrong, that's my motto."

"You're really cool, you know that?"

Ten hopes and prays that he's able to will any sort of blush creeping up his neck away, taking another sip of his water instead. His ego is already big enough without the help of Johnny. "I know."

"Can you help me then?" Johnny asks, "Just a little bit? Be my teacher, maybe I just need a bit of a push."

If Ten knows anything, it's that this is a bad idea, Johnny is dumb and doesn't think of the consequences and they might end up dead. It’s just that _—_ as it so happens, Ten loves proving the status quo wrong.

“Fine. I've always wanted my own apprentice. What are your plans for tonight?”

§

_**The Noble Mage’s Guide to Bloodline** _

_A noble mage’s most imperative tool in securing the magical bloodline is, without a doubt, the genetic pool._

_One must strive for marriage bonds within one’s magical caste as means of offspring with a higher ratio percentage of the magic-blood binary. Each percentage will ultimately lead to a higher percentage of blood mana, and thus produce the best quality of magic possible given the natural affinity of such family line._

_If the mage’s family bloodline is polluted with Lesser blood, the offspring’s magic quality will significantly drop. A mage should be careful with pollution, for a noble mage’s duty is to protect and preserve the ancient and pure blood of our ancestors._

_This author has categorized the percentages of magic blood into five categories._

_**Noble, Strong, Effective, Weak, Dull.** _

Aside from these categories, a mage should also take into consideration the different magical races that will undoubtedly contaminate pure mage blood.

_Amongst the Other races, the only compatible option for offspring is the nephilim race, the only known race to maintain its percentage of magic in the blood regardless of any pollution._

_Lilith Races that will pollute the noble mage’s bloodline include: Cambions, Witches, and Warlocks. Races that will bring down the magic blood percentage include, but are not limited to: Sprites, Merfolk, and non-magical humans. In the case of—_

“Pū?” Ten asks.

“Hm?” Pū doesn’t look up from his desk, focusing solely on the papers in front of him.

“Is this book true?”

“None of my books are fiction, Chittaphon.”

Ten pauses, looking at the dusty book in front of him and decides that it looks even older than his grandfather. Probably a few hundred years old.

“It says my magic is weak because my mom is a witch.”

This is what makes Pū look up, he spares Ten a glance then at the book in his hands. He sighs then leaves his pen on the desk, leaning back on his chair. Ten stares at him in curiosity, his grandpa looks like that whenever he has something important to say. Most of the time, Pū only has important and interesting things to say.

“Yes, that’s true,” his grandpa says, pensive. This is the first time Ten has seen his grandfather look unsure, as if he’s thinking of what he must say beforehand. “Your ancestral magic is locked because your witch mother’s blood courses through you.”

“Is that why you don’t like her?”

“I suppose so.”

“I don’t think I’m weak, though,” Ten closes the book, dust specks flying across the room under the dim sunlight that shines through the heavy curtains. He stands up from where he’s sitting on the carpeted floor of his grandfather’s office, “I’ve told you... I can feel it. The magic tingles me sometimes.”

“That’s why you have to study, Chittaphon,” Pū says, convinced, “You may never reach the full potential of a pure-blooded mage, but you’re still a Leechaiyapornkul. Never forget that, boy.” In fact, nine-year-old Ten never forgets.

In hindsight, Pū kind of fucked him up.

§

“I say these look great,” Johnny points at a pair of eye-catching fingerless red gloves.

Ten looks at them for a single second before turning away, “I was thinking something darker. How about these?”

“Those are too black.”

“Exactly.”

“They look the same as the ones you had on yesterday,”

“ _Exactly._ ”

“I don’t know, Ten, I think red would look good on you,” Johnny grabs the gloves from the counter and puts them next to Ten’s unimpressed face. “The contrast is _magnifique_. What do you think, Dragon King?” He turns to the daemon who looks on as the two mages argue.

Dragon King nods, “Magnifique.”

Sometimes Ten doesn’t know if the daemon likes to be annoying on purpose. “People are gonna think you’re crazy,” Ten murmurs, looking back at the array of winter gloves, “It just looks like you’re talking to thin air.”

“Your daemon is a fine companion,” Johnny pats Dragon King on the back, “I don’t care if people think I’m crazy.”

“Of course you don’t,” Ten says, eyeing Dragon King, who just stands there as people pass by. It’s almost humorous, he thinks, if anyone else could see him they would only stare at the tall man with a demon mask, standing out like a sore thumb with his strange combat clothes.

“Should I buy the black gloves or the red gloves?” he asks the daemon.

Dragon King pauses, Ten may not be able to see his full face but he can tell the other is thinking quite hard, as if the question Ten poses is of the most importance. Finally, he says, “Both.”

“Well said!” Johnny cheers, “I think that’s as good an answer as any.”

Ten sighs. “You two are impossible. I’m gonna buy the black ones.”

For the past few days, Ten has been struggling to find out more about his daemon. It’s not against the rules or anything of the like, but daemons often do not offer any information about their own identities _—_ about the humans they used to be. Their infernal alias and a mask is more than enough for any mage, after all, their daemons are here for a contract and nothing else. Still _—_ Ten can be _curious_.

There are only a few things he has gathered so far about Dragon King: he has been trained by an ancient family, that much is obvious judging by his use of traditional sigils. He is a combat mage, one that enhances his own fighting style and swords with mana. And somehow, for some reason, he has bad blood with Khamot. This frustrates Ten, he knows he could gather more leads if his own daemon would tell him just the tiniest bit of information, but he does not and Ten is helpless.

“Let’s go,” he calls over both his daemon and Johnny.

Of course, only one of them actually obeys. The one under a blood contract.

“I’m not done buying,” Johnny says from across the room, “I’ll go get us some coffee, you go ahead.”

“I’ll meet you at the park then,” Ten doesn’t think twice before turning around, Dragon King behind him, an eternal shadow.

“He’s scatterbrained,” Ten tells his daemon as soon as they’re outside, walking along the snowed streets. The sky is dark but the stars are barely visible above the urban landscape.

“Hm.”

“But he’s… a good person, I think. He has potential.”

“Potential doesn’t mean he’ll be a good mage.”

“No. But with effort and a good teacher, his magic can be good, regardless of anything else.”

“Yes. I agree.”

They stop in a park, just next to the shopping streets they’ve been browsing for the past few hours. Ten didn’t expect to spend so much time out, but Johnny is curious, like a dog, and Ten seems to indulge him quite a lot.

“What’s your next plan of action?” Dragon King asks as Ten sits on a bench after wiping away the snow on top of it.

“The Church of Rieti. That’s our only lead so far. Even if the gargoyle and yesterday’s Dark daemon have nothing to do with Khamot, it’s worth investigating.”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

Ten shrugs, the ghost of a smile curls on his lips. “Mom always said it was my best quality.”

The silence between them is comfortable as they settle down and, not for the first time, Ten feels a sense of gratitude for the daemon he summoned by chance. He remembers stories told by Pū throughout the years, stories about daemons who asked for the unthinkable, others who refused to be ordered around by human masters, and in some cases, the worst cases, daemons who ended up killing the mages who summoned them before even forming a contract. Ten knew the risk he’d be taking with a high-level summon _—_ he had been trying not to think about it _—_ but he supposes all’s well that ends well. Maybe after all this is over he’ll even tell Pū about his first successful summon.

“Ten!” Johnny yells in the background. They turn around to see the mage running towards them, nose red from the cold and coat flying against the wind, his silhouette a contrast against the snow around them. For a moment Ten thinks Johnny looks handsome, his dark hair making him look boyish and cool, his long coat and scarf different from the uniform Ten has seen him wear time and time again. He might even look the part of a mage if he tries hard enough.

Johnny slips on the snow, falling flat on his ass.

Dragon King and Ten stare at the boy in silence. Johnny looks around, disoriented for a second. Then, he laughs, a big, open-mouthed laugh, his cheeks pink and hair disheveled.

The daemon mutters something under his breath, maybe something in disbelief at the big buffoon in front of them.

Ten stares at Johnny for a second, blinking, before laughing along with him. Something about this boy is so light-hearted, so careless and free and Ten can’t help but laugh with him until his stomach hurts. He wonders when was the last time he’d laughed this hard.

He walks over to him, lending him a hand which he takes with a laugh. “And where’s the coffee?” he raises his eyebrow.

“Well, I lied,” Johnny dusts the snow off his clothes, “I stayed back for something else.”

“And what might that be?”

Johnny grins, looking for something on the inside of his coat pocket. He takes out a pair of red fingerless gloves. “I meant it when I said you look good in red. Here, it’s a gift.”

Ten looks on gingerly taking the gloves from Johnny. “You really are something, aren’t you?”

“I try.”

He sighs, looking at the gloves he’s already wearing before taking them off. Ten likes dark clothes, but he supposes a splash of color can be okay too. “Here, then,” he offers his own gloves to Johnny, “You can take these.”

“They might be a tight fit,” Johnny laughs, “You’re so small.”

“Ah!” he frowns, “Then nevermind!” Ten moves the gloves away from Johnny.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Johnny laughs, leaning forward in an attempt to steal the offered gift from Ten and, in the process, their bodies press against each other for a second. Ten catches a whiff of Johnny’s scent, a soft smell of coffee and body wash. He moves back, embarrassed, “Here, just take them.”

Ten wishes he could unsee the warm, knowing smile Johnny gives him as he takes the gloves from him, fingers brushing. “Thank you.”

It is then that Ten sees Dragon King watching them, silent, and the embarrassment comes flooding in strides. He can feel his face grow red and hot as he takes a few steps away from Johnny and towards his daemon.

“Your face is red, are you okay?” Dragon King asks.

“I didn’t ask,” Ten barks. He clears his throat, “Johnny, we’re leaving. We’ll head to my house, I’ll go pick up my locus map, I’ll say hi to my grandpa and make up an excuse saying I’m staying over at your house. Then we’ll leave for St. Rieti.”

“I’m meeting your grandpa?” Johnny asks, face becoming pale, “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“He won’t,” Ten turns around.

The trip home could’ve been faster had Ten let Dragon King use spirit travel again. Fortunately, Ten isn’t crazy and has sworn he will only do that again in times of extreme need. He’s not a fan of feeling like he’s being torn to pieces, thank you.

Instead, he decides to let Dragon King have a little fun and use the urban bus. He doesn’t know the daemon’s place of origin or timeline, but maybe he’d like a little trip around the city of lights.

“I never get tired of looking at it,” Johnny says, eyes glued to the landscape outside, “Paris is so pretty at night. It’s always felt like a poem to me.”

Dragon King looks on as well, his brown eyes gleaming, and Ten would like to think maybe there’s a soft smile on his lips in that moment. He wonders about the place the daemon is from, wonders if he’s reminiscing about his old life as a human and whether he misses it or not.

By the time they reach the western banlieue of Le Vésinet, the city lights become dimmer and the people fewer. It is now Ten’s turn to feel like a babysitter as he herds both Johnny and Dragon King out of the bus and into the gravel path that leads to the isolated house areas in the neighborhood. Every house _—_ mansion _—_ around the place is gated and they look especially intimidating at night.

“There’s a small wood area we can walk through to get there faster,” Ten mentions. “It leads to the back of my house.”

“Are there coyotes around here?” Johnny asks as Ten takes the lead, just a step ahead of the ever-alert Dragon King. “There’s always coyotes this time of the year in Chicago, they’re awful and can eat your pets.”

“That sounds horrible.”

Johnny and Ten use their phone’s flashlights to light up the way as the wind howls faster, the loud crunch of leaves as they step on them, filling most of the silence. Ten shivers and moves closer to his cozy-looking daemon. Johnny frowns and Ten decides to ignore whatever that might mean.

“Do you smell that?” Johnny says instead, stopping in his tracks.

“Smell what?” Ten sniffs but only gets a whiff of cold air that hurts his nose.

Dragon King pauses too, body tense and eyes hard.

“Smoke.”

Smoke? He tries sniffing again, closing his eyes. The smell of smoke is faint, barely there, but that’s not what makes Ten’s skin crawl, no _—_ it’s the feeling of dark energy, strong dark energy that comes from farther into the small forest.

“Ten, is there… what’s around the area beside your house?” Johnny asks.

Ten doesn’t answer him, his mind is blank as his legs take off, running against the freezing wind and stepping on slippery snow and wet leaves, trees whirring past him. There might be voices calling after him, he doesn’t know, the only thing on his mind right now is his house _—_ his home.

With each step, the smell of smoke becomes heavier, undeniable, and Ten breaks out into a sweat as his legs ache and his throat hurts from the cold air but he simply does not stop.

 _Please, please,_ is all he can think about. There’s something in the pit of his stomach, inexplicable, that is yelling at him that something is wrong, that something is going on.

Ten doesn’t have many things, not anymore. His home is one of the few he has left. That’s all he can think about when the trees finally give way to the towering mansion.

Red flames and black smoke engulf the house and Ten’s never been more afraid in his life. The smell of smoke is overwhelming to his senses and he’d nearly pass out if it weren’t for the faint silhouettes he can see in the distance.

One of them is Pū, face hard as his hands emanate a bright blue light. His clothes are full of soot and his greying hair is disheveled, this is the first time Ten has seen his grandfather look anything but pristine. He can’t dwell on this, not when the second silhouette towers above them, floating up in the sky. Ten can only make out the faint figure, blue mask that looks down at his grandfather, nothing else.

“Pū!” Ten yells, straining his throat, but the wind doesn’t carry his voice, the crackling flames too loud for him to be heard.

The blue coming from Pū’s hands suddenly blasts a light towards the floating silhouette, Ten knows the exact amount of mana it takes to create a blast of that caliber, a normal mage would pass out after producing one or two of them. The blast, although powerful, misses the daemon, who effortlessly moves out of the way.

This is indeed a daemon, Ten thinks, its energy doesn’t lie. But what is it doing here? What is it doing burning his house and targeting master mage Aod Leechaiyapornkul? “Pū!” he yells again as the elder keeps on blasting more bursts of mana at the daemon, missing every time. The daemon floats, calm, collected.

“Pū!” He runs towards his grandfather, trying to understand what is happening. He’ll help him fight and take down this daemon, whoever it might be and whatever it may want.

A light flashes past him, bright against the dark sky, a fire arrow burning at a speed Ten cannot even begin to comprehend. It’s aimed at the daemon, but, once again, he dodges like it’s a game and Ten wonders why it doesn’t counterattack. He just observes, like a falcon watching its prey from up above. A third figure is up in the sky, flying a few meters away from the daemon, bow and fire arrows in hand. A nephilim.

“Pū, what’s happening?” Ten cries as he finally reaches his grandfather, exhaustion in his bones. “Why is the house on fire? Are you okay, is everyone okay? What is—”

“ _Chittaphon,_ ” his grandfather says, voice hard. Ten is shaken to the core, is this really his Pū? He’s never seen him act so frazzled. “You need to get out of here, get out of here now.”

“No!” he says, “What’s happening—”

Ten can’t finish what he’s saying before a purple light, electrifying and hot, is aimed at them—at Ten. The strange daemon has finally attacked. “Chittaphon!” Pū yells and lifts his hands, creating a shield before both of them are burnt to ashes. “ _Go_ , I’ll be okay. You need to leave.”

“Hey, you, listen to him! This is no place for kids!” The red-haired nephilim, with the fire arrows, has landed just a few feet from them. His wings are daunting, one of them as red as the flames burning down his house, the other as white as the snow below their feet. “Don’t worry, the Bureau shits are also here, we got it!”

Just as the nephilim finishes, the sound of a gun is heard from nearby, each yellow, deathly bullet is aimed at the masked daemon. He dodges each of them and Ten feels fear just seeing how fast this daemon is, how powerful.

The daemon aims at them again, but the shield Pū has made still holds strong.

“This thing is gonna come back down again,” the nephilim shouts, “You better leave now!”

He turns back to face his grandfather, “Pū—”

“Leave. Chittaphon, _this is an order_.”

Ten knows his battle is lost. He looks at the nephilim, then at his grandfather. “Look for me at the Bureau tomorrow. I promise I’ll be there,” Aod says. Ten looks at him for a second—this is a master mage, this is a Leechaiyapornkul mage, of course he’ll be alright. He swallows down hard and stops any tears from coming out. He _won’t_ lose anyone else.

Ten nods once, briefly. And then he runs.

He runs back through the forest and feels as the daemon behind him tries to give chase, sending purple bursts of his own. The attacks never reach Ten and he can’t even look behind him to know whether it was the nephilim or his grandfather or perhaps the gun-toting unseen stranger who’s managed to stop him for a moment. Ten doesn’t look back and he runs past the trees, almost tripping with the muddy snow. Where’s Dragon King? Where’s Johnny? Did they get lost?

For a moment all Ten can hear is the sound of his own heavy breathing as he runs across the shrubbery and trees. His legs feel like jelly and his throat is on fire but he cannot stop here, somehow, he feels—he _knows_ —that the daemon is chasing after him. A burst of light strikes the tree next to him, then another one, just behind him. The sound of those purple thunders are frightening but he never turns around. Ten keeps on running.

There’s a moment after that second thunder that Ten feels like he’s just going to stop, that his legs will give in and he’ll trip and the daemon will kill him. Every single fiber in him is screaming to run, his body just isn’t listening.

The third thunder seems to come in slow motion, it starts with an electric crackling and Ten knows it will strike soon. And somehow, he also knows this time he won’t be as lucky—so far, he is only alive thanks to Pū, the red-haired nephilim, and sheer luck.

“Fuck,” might as well be the last thing he says out loud as he trips on a tree branch. How absolutely, incredibly cliché of Ten.

The thunder strikes, he can hear as it does, it just doesn’t strike _him._

Ten, still on the floor, wills himself to turn around and take a peek, both in fear and curiosity.

A shield of white surrounds him, the purple remains of the magic burst are still crackling outside of the sphere.

“Ngh,” a voice from next to him says, “Don’t just stay there idiot. The shield is gonna break, _run.”_

Ten finds himself at a loss for words but he has no time to think. He runs, Doyoung Kim by his side.

The shield follows them, Ten can tell Doyoung is trying his best to keep it up but it’s hard exerting the physical body and maintaining mana. The daemon is still following them from up in the air, however, so the only option is to keep running forward, away from the daemon. Ten wonders where those two mighty boys who think themselves mages are.

“Where are we going?” he asks, still unsure of how and why Doyoung is here.

“Fuck if I know,” Doyoung says, “Just run, I swear to god, Ten.”

In the distance, however, two dark figures soon appear. Familiar figures. Ten nearly weeps in joy. “Doyoung, over there!” he says, taking the lead to guide them to Ten’s own daemon.

He can see Dragon King in the distance and he’s—fighting. Ten’s heart races at the sight of three fucking gargoyles trying to attack his daemon and _Johnny Seo._ “Fuck,” he mutters again, willing his legs to go faster.

“Dragon King,” he yells, waving his arms. He sees Doyoung’s shield slowly become translucent, a sign that it could give up any minute now.

“ _Ten,”_ Dragon King says as one of his swords cuts through a headless gargoyle, Johnny behind him as the daemon protects him.

Ten crashes into them, Doyoung soon following by inertia. The last thing he remembers is Doyoung’s face squished against Johnny’s, the feeling of warm, strong arms surrounding him, and then—the feeling of being torn into pieces.

§

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, thank you so much for reading this chapter. Thank you also so so much to everyone who is following along and is commenting and being suspicious of every other character lol.
> 
> My plan was to update every Friday, but life is getting quite hectic, so the following updates might not be as quick ;; Still, I will do my best!
> 
> If you're interested, I have a DKR playlist on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6pd3lL2Fszb2Q9anui8aNK?si=hcBN-cvFSmiIBWPaJDOHWw)!
> 
> And again, my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/ten_taeil)


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